


Cute when she Drinks

by kayurafii



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, DA Secret Santa, Dragon Age Secret Santa, Drinking, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Pillow Talk, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, a couple of minorly, a fuckton of mentioned, a smidge of, being drunk, ends on a mature note but nothing graphic, good humored, i basically think of the origins crew has having levels of ptsd, invasive thoughts, then some less than innocent teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayurafii/pseuds/kayurafii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair thinks on just how cute Mahariel is while she and Oghren battle it out in an Orzimmar tavern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cute when she Drinks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazy_voveriukas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazy_voveriukas/gifts).



> My DA secret santa, crazyvoveriukas, says they love everything about DA and esp their Warden (and other OCs). And DA:O has my favorite romance (cause I'm a hopeless one) our baby, blushing Alistair. So I had to write some fluffy love for their devoted and sarcastic Warden, Freyja Mahariel, and her Templar lover.

Freyja Mahariel is not  _ cute _ .  Not if whoever’s fool tongue the word’s about to fall from wants to keep it.  She is many things; strong, dependable, a bit of a bitch (which she calls sarcastic, but who’s she to argue with  _ shems _ anyway?).  But she is  _ not _ cute.

Alistair tends to disagree with her.  He finds her  _ very _ cute.  Endearingly so.  Less so when covered in blood.  No, she’s more  _ intimidating _ and  _ sexy _ then.  She’s cute in the mornings when she rolls away from him to yawn.  Cute when she acts on her fastidious nature when it comes to bathing.   _ Unbearably _ so when she’s angling for secret smooches

She’s not cute when she’s in charge, then she’s inspiring.  He has no idea how she does it.  She’s, by far, the smallest of them but there’s something about her that grabs the attention.  More than that, holds it.  And Alistair is glad, increasingly so every day, that he’s never found the strength to look away.

Although he’s finding himself regretting that weakness about now.  She’s less cute and more  _ amazingly drunk _ as she and Oghren are dueling it out drink for drink.  Apparently until one of them taps out by  _ passing _ out.  The dwarf had gone on for the  _ weeks, _ on their journey to Orzammar, about the superiority of the ale he called piss.  No, I’m sorry.  Not  _ other _ ales are piss but Dwarven Ale is the pissyest.  And they had a good dozen tankards between them.

Alistair gets a good grip on the next round and begins weaving through the bar.  He likes to take moments like these to thank the Maker for the things he truly takes for granted; strong arms and being taller than a Dwarf.  Freyja’s smirk beaming, more lopsidedly than usual, up at him as he takes the bench next to her.  She leans into him, somehow still keeping her tankard level.  Not that there’s much left in it.

“Where  _ do _ you put it all?” He leans into her as well.

“Where else would she put it, lad?” Oghren laughs as he pats against his belly with a long belch.  He’s sitting still but the way he sways reminds Alistair of their short trip across Lake Calenhad.  

He tamps down on _that_ thought before it gets too far and, instead of answering the goading question,  runs his hand over the small of Freyja’s back.  Then finds himself marveling at just  _ how _ quickly the elf can down a pint.  “It’s like you open your throat and it all just  _ falls _ in! Do you even swallow?!” Alistair gets all the way through his exclamation before losing his breath at the end, his own throat closing around the double entendre as Oghren turns red from laughing and Freyja turns to look at him.

Her face is tinged red in all the right places, and Alistair lets himself marvel at her for the briefest of moments before he meets her eye.

“I don’t know,  _ Alistair _ ,  _ do _ I swallow?” she asks with an even tone, her eye still sharp and gleaming with the chance for mischief.

And its Alistair’s turn to turn red to the roots of his hair.  He stutters through an apology, not that anyone hears while Oghren chants ‘carrot-top’ and laughs about the ‘ _ poor _ chantry-raised boy’, and ‘what do they _teach_ you nug-humpers up there?’  Alistair goes to stand, to escape back to camp and his own tent and bedroll so he can spontaneously combust in peace.

He’s stopped short by a surprisingly warm hand pulling him back into his chair by the wrist.  Sometimes he forgets how strong she is.  It’s humbling and it turns his knees to jelly.  If he lets her, she can manhandle him all over their tent.

“Dwarf, leave the boy alone, at least he doesn’t go back to an empty bed.” She adds a leer to soften the blow, but it appears unnecessary as Oghren is already laughing harder than ever once the word ‘boy’ leaves her lips.  And, in case you've forgotten Alistair, the reason  _you_ went to the bar instead of  _me_ was because  _I_ was otherwise  _occupied_."

Oghren can barely breathe, let along talk, but he manages all the same, “I’ve got my hooch to keep me warm.” He gets out between chuckles, “But why don’t you let a  _ real _ man show you how it’s done?” He leans across the table, failing to actually get near her.

Alistair, in a fit of overreaction he’ll realize later, exercises his own strength and pulls Freyja into his lap and wraps his arms around her waist.  He presses his face into her neck and whispers “Mine,” where only, he hopes, she can hear him.  She goes very still against him.  Leaning into him, yes, but still.

He stands up, going for broke, and walks out with her in his arms to the sound of Oghren guffawing.  “Try again tomorrow, Warden?”

***

Alistair sets Freyja down before the door to the tavern is fully closed.  “Sorry,” he mumbles and begins to walk off dejectedly.

“Are you just going to  _ leave _ me here?” she huffs at him, but he can hear her smiling.  “After all of that?  Leave me to my own devices?  At least Oghren offered to keep me warm.”  Her hands meet her hips and she leans to the side showing off all her curves, subtle and luscious.  “And after interrupting out test of wills.” she tuts.

“Now I know you’re teasing me.” he says with a grin, turning back to her.

“Oh yeah?  What was your first clue,  _ shem _ ?”  She walks down the steps and links her arm through his, pulls him towards the Walk of Paragons, or whatever they call it.

“Probably the part where your mouth opened.” he replies, a smile splitting his face as he beams down at her.

“Sass, give me one good reason I should keep putting up with you.” She doesn’t remove her arm from his, but she sounds like she should have her hands on her hips and her face turned from him.  Instead, she leans in, presses her face to his shoulder.

“Well, I can’t tell you here, too many ears for too sensitive of information.”  He presses a kiss to the top of her head as they wait for the guards to pry the outer doors open.

The air outside Orzammar is frigid.  Not as cold as Haven, but drier and windier.  Less  _ pleasant _ all around.  Though he certainly doesn’t miss the rotten smell of blood wafting through the air.  Another thought that he brings up short as they make the short trek down the mountainside to their camp.

It’s empty when they get there, save for Shale off to one side apparently trying to coax a bird out of a tree.  They ignore the golem as they makes for their tent.  It was a challenge to find the right formation of tents, all close enough for warmth and security but spread enough to offer  _ some _ kind of privacy.  They slip into their tent without engaging Shale, and probably for the best as it finally caught it’s doomed prize.  They wait as they listen for Shale to lumber off.

“Was there a pre-ordained signal that no one told me about?” Freyja asks as Alistair ties the tent flaps secure.  Alistair looks over his shoulder at her, head cocked in question.  “Where is everyone else?” She asks with her eyes sliding closed and her body leaning against the rolled up blanket that served as a pillow.

Alistair shrugs, his mouth going dry remembering other times when this exact pose preceded a night of him serving her all night long.  He remembers seeing the sunrise through the gaps in the entrance, the sky turning the same shade as her flushed skin, while she petted his head resting on her breast.  The smile on her face says she just  _ might _ be remembering the same night.

He crawls over to her until her legs are between his knees and his hands bracket her shoulders.  She pushes up to meet him halfway, her lips warm and soft and parting beneath his, her tongue sweeping out to taste him.  He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into his throat to meet the sweet sounds coming from her.

“I should pelt you with snow for that display earlier.” She says, pushing against him with a hand to his shoulder.  Her lips shine with his spit and she drags her teeth over the bottom one.  “I think you should make it up to me.”

He does, starting at her temple with a kiss, down the side of her face to concentrate on her throat.  And then down further, stripping her tunic off as he licks and nips down her breasts, over her stomach.  She helps him wiggle her out of her leggings as he moves on to her thighs.  He gives both knees and ankles brief kisses, petting down her hips.

He kisses other places, as well.  Hot, wet places that make her moan and tug at this hair, longer now than the first time they did this.  Then she had to moan around instructions, telling him how to touch her, how to make her shiver and shake as she came undone around him, much as she comes undone around him now.


End file.
